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Vladimir Lionter May 2020
I’m not a son or a grandson. I’ll say
Politely: I have not memories’ ton!
Only my soul is sad night and day
That our beloved poet is gone!

In New York he left at the dawn of years—
In January it was snowing hard.
I read his books of poetry and prose
From cover to cover for the mind.

I know even his number of phone
And his home address for writing.
But I’m afraid very much of bad form,
There’ll be no one letters reading.

His memory’ll be memorized, I believe,
So that the text in bronze runs
On home: “Never be sad, people, time treats grief,
Joseph Brodsky lived here, this memorize!”
{2020}

К 80-ЛЕТИЮ ИОСИФА БРОДСКОГО

Я не сын, не внук. Скажу учтиво:
У меня воспоминаний нет!
Только где-то на душе тоскливо,
Что ушёл любимый наш поэт!
На рассвете лет ушёл в Нью-Йорке -
Снег тогда январский сильно мёл.
Книги все его от корки к корке
Я стихов и прозы перечёл.
Знаю даже номер телефона,
Адрес дома – чтобы написать.
Но боюсь я очень моветона –
Будет письма некому читать.
Память – верю я – увековечат.
В бронзе текст на доме чтоб гласил:
«Не грустите, люди! Время лечит!
Здесь Иосиф Бродский раньше жил!»
{14.05.2020}

Translator - I. Toporov
SG Holter Oct 2014
I searched for meaning
In religion and philosophy.
Taking on gods and
Prophets.

Gained some wisdom, but
Ended up confused more than
Enlightened.
Lost the little firm footing
I had.

I searched in arts and music.
Interprating. Analyzing.
Enjoying and disliking.
Expressing and being
Alternative. Original.
Outside the box.

All I gained was an unhealthy
Love of wine.
Less meaning than I
Began with.
Some pretentious friends.
More confusion than ever.

So I stopped searching.
Stopped chasing.
Stood still drawing fresh,
Crisp morning air into
My lungs, then felt it travel
To my soul.

I closed my eyes and heard
Her heartbeat through her
Naked chest; her collar bone
Against my temple.
Attuned my own to hers.
Dancing. Still.
Dancing. Still.
Dancing. Still.

Everyday magic.
Adventure within trivialities.
Dirt on the knees of my new
Jeans from recieving a hug from
A five-year-old.

Seeing pride in the eyes of my
Parents from a distance.
Unretainable love
And lust in the eyes of
My woman on a Tuesday afternoon.  
No special occation at all.
Just here,
Now.
Us.

No need to struggle.
To search.
To run after anything.
Just relax. Observe. Appreciate.
Love. Long for, then
Enjoy.

Nothing is without reason.
There's meaning in  
Everything you sense,
Everywhere you are;

You.
SG Holter Oct 2014
It's kind of cold in here,* I think as
I leave my
Laptop on the chair and
Pick up the last pair
Of wool socks my late
Grandmother knitted.
Spoiled from spending time
At my girlfriend's place, its shell being
170 years younger than that of
Mine, I suppose...

Old houses breathe.

The cat is balled up on the sofa;
Sleeping within its own
Body heat, only responding
With a flick of an ear to
My patting it.

I light fires in living room and
Kitchen, and
Recall how I used to sit at
Four in the morning
Under a blanket with a cup
Of coffee and tried to

Shiver less as I waited for the fire
To take. My parents' living room,
Having had to move back.
Late twenties. Divorced.
Undergone heart surgery.
Declared bankrupt
(On most levels of Life, in fact).

The ****** Months, I used to
Refer to them as. When it all
Came down.
The following years -spent working,
Saving, drinking the weekends
Away and lying to my doctor

About it- I got to know my parents
Again. My father would knock
On the door to my room and make
YouTube requests; recalling songs
From decades ago he never thought
He'd hear again.
He still brings up those nights
On occation. It was good.

Mother's knock meant room service.
She loved waiting on me like
That. Feeling useful.
Having me there. After all that
Had happened.

I had all I needed up there. Guitars.
Weights and a bench. Decent
Internet. Sometimes I'd just sit in
The dark in silence, hearing nothing
But the ticking of my St. Jude aorta
Heart valve, feeling the soreness of

My fresh scar fading, tracing the
Uneven bones of my rib cage
Where they's sawed me open.
Gutted
(On most levels of Life, in fact).
But it was good. I was
Aware. I was still here.

In the mornings I'd get up at 03.55,
Light the fire and sip my coffee,
Watching snow land on the
Windows, or stars illuminate the
Fields of white outside, perhaps even
Dancing northern lights
Above the pine tree tops.

Winter. Summers were summers.
Bird calls preceded my alarm.
Coffee on the stairs outside.
Sunrise streching her hands above
The horizon as I awoke.
Nothing I could see wasn't home
(On most levels of Life, in fact).

Three years until I moved out again.  
It got quiet for them, I know that.
But I had healed.
Trained.
Grown.
Smiled.

Three moves later, and I'm back in
My home village.
Neighbouring farm.
Countryside silence.
Home.

~

The room is getting warmer. I place a
Piece of wood on the embers and lean
Back in my chair by the fire.
The cat is now completely outstreched
In a full feline smile of fur and limbs.
I see movements in the trees outside in
The corner of my eye, but the winds
May blow as violently as they want.

I have four walls and a roof.
A belly full of salmon, a job that pays,
A wonderful woman who
Loves me as much as I love her, and
From my bedroom window, I see the
Lights from the
House where my parents live.
Where I grew up.
Twice.

— The End —